


Salute the Flagg

by annabeth_at_the_helm



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: "flagg" desecration, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Flagg is consenting he's just crazy, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24509314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_at_the_helm/pseuds/annabeth_at_the_helm
Summary: Colonel Flagg shows up unannounced, as usual, and things take a quirky turn (well, when don't they, where Flagg is concerned?).This is sort of written as a tongue-in-cheek fill for Banned Together Bingo for "flag desecration."
Relationships: Colonel Flagg/Hawkeye Pierce, Trapper/Hawkeye (mentioned)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Salute the Flagg

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadesofhades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/gifts).



"I thought so!" said a familiar voice, though it sounded strangely disguised, as Hawkeye blinked open weary eyes. He was in the Swamp… and it must have been a helluva party, because his head was at the bottom of his bunk, Trapper's boot was lying next to his head, and…

"What the fuck?" Hawkeye sat up too fast—his head felt like it exploded—and glared. He was too hungover for this.

"I have finally got it! Conclusive proof! You can't wiggle your way out of this one, Captain Pierce!"

The man literally shouting at—Hawkeye blearily checked his watch—three in the morning was none other than the ubiquitous Colonel Flagg. The man was bright eyed, bushy-tailed, wearing his famous blank expression, and a uniform so neatly pressed and creased that Frank would be proud.

"Uh," Hawkeye glanced around at the Swamp, which was resembling, well, a Swamp after a bog party, and blinked again. "What exactly can't I get out of?"

The Swamp was strangely empty, as a matter of fact; no sign of Frank or Trapper anywhere.

"You are _canoodling_ with your bunkmate, who happens to be the enemy!"

Hawkeye groaned and scrubbed a hand over his stubble. "My blonde, hazel-eyed, built like a tank, bunkmate? The one with the Boston accent? _That_ bunkmate?"

"It is a disguise, I'll have you know. I have infiltrated his disguise and I have no need to prove it to you, but upon much surveillance I have discovered… THIS."

Colonel Flagg picked up the boot that had been by Hawkeye's head. This was an extraordinary leap of logic—though not for Colonel Flagg, not really. The fact that he was, for once, right—Hawkeye was indeed canoodling with Trapper, everywhere and anywhere he could get it—did not preclude the fact that Flagg was just guessing. Hawkeye knew he and Trapper hadn't been caught, and the boot by his head could have been his own.

"It's an army boot," he said. "We all wear them."

"It is NOT." Flagg said triumphantly. "It is both a communication device—you to your MALE lover—and a device for eavesdropping! I have been listening to you for days now, Pierce, and—"

Hawkeye had heard enough. Getting out of his bunk as quickly—and creakily—as possible, he backed Flagg up against the side of the tent. This close, he could note the color of his eyes and the cadence of his breath—which smelled strongly of whiskey. He would not be at all surprised to discover that Flagg had attended the Swamp party last night in some sort of disguise.

"Do you wanna make a bet out of that?" he said softly. Flagg simply stared at him, unblinking, unmoving—completely _not_ unnerved in the slightest.

"You can't fool me, Pierce, you're one of _those_ ," Flagg said righteously. He was starting to sound like Frank—and probably just as closeted, too.

"You want to test drive your theory? It will give you even more conclusive proof," Hawkeye said, because—even though Flagg didn't really have any proof against him and Trapper—if he made Flagg complicit, the man was unlikely to run his… very finely shaped… mouth.

Flagg stared at him some more. Then, so minute Hawkeye almost missed it, he shrugged. Ah, Hawkeye thought, I was right. He _is_ closeted. And the man was beautiful in a completely loony way.

So Hawkeye leaned in, giving Flagg a moment to resist—token protest?—and melded their lips together. Flagg began to squirm, but not away—closer. Hawkeye smirked against his lips.

"See, you were right," he said. "Let's move this—over there." He took Flagg by the wrist—the colonel continued to go along with things in a jerky, sort of hallucinatory way—and tossed him down onto Hawkeye's bunk. Hawkeye commenced kissing him again, first his lips—firm and a shapely pout—to his jaw, then down, to the crease of neck and shoulder. Here he bit down, and then, as he continued to use his mouth to tease, torment, and arouse, he ran his hand up Flagg's thigh, pausing at his hip.

Flagg lay still, silent, and implacable beneath Hawkeye—unmoving and apparently unmoved. Hawkeye was surprised—he probably shouldn't be, but he was—that his tender attentions as a lover were being so completely ignored. Flagg wasn't resisting—he hadn't said no, or Hawkeye would have stopped—and though he was stiff all over, Hawkeye had the sense that he was mastering _himself_ for some reason, not because he wanted Hawkeye to stop.

He lifted his head from where he'd been licking a love bite on the cut of Flagg's jaw near his ear.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, because he had to be sure. Flagg neither looked him in the eye nor turned his head away; but he said, low,

"I do not." Hawkeye was pretty sure the word _care_ was said too softly to be heard, except just _barely_ , but even if Flagg didn't care if he stopped—that was not a protestation either.

Hawkeye returned to his feast, applying all of his considerable charm and sexual knowledge to the task, and slid his hand the rest of the way to Flagg's cock—which was completely limp, hanging there just like a flag might on a windless day.

Shrugging mentally, he figured he'd just have to try harder. Men became aroused when they were stimulated, no matter who did the stimulating—it was basic biology. A man could not control an erection or keep from popping one.

Thirty minutes later, Hawkeye was sweaty and disheveled, and Flagg was in dishabille, wearing only his hat and his socks and his army briefs. But Hawkeye was beginning to question his medical knowledge about arousal in men.

Because in thirty minutes of intense teasing, tasting, sucking, and other attempts to rouse Flagg, he'd gotten exactly… nowhere. Flagg remained limp and quiescent beneath the cotton of his briefs, and his belly was rock hard with an effort to hold his body still. Finally, Hawkeye couldn't take it anymore.

Pulling his mouth away from Flagg's cock—which he had been assiduously sucking at through the fabric—he stared down at the implacable, infuriating colonel.

"Why won't you get _hard_?" he shouted, as quietly as possible. His own dick had been hard and leaking precome profusely for the last, oh, twenty-five minutes or so. And in that time, Hawkeye had sucked Flagg's nipples—then bitten them gently; he had rubbed Flagg's thighs while making increasingly tighter concentric circles towards his dick; he had spent an age trying to rouse him with his mouth on said dick—and nothing was having the slightest effect.

Flagg pinned him with a glance. "I have no need of such earthly, base emotions," he said stiffly—and truly, at the moment, the only thing stiff about Flagg was his tone of voice, and the only thing stiffer than that was his whole body—excepting his cock, of course.

Hawkeye was mystified. He took out his own dick and began to stroke himself; surely the sight would get Flagg's motor running even if everything else did not, right?

But a few minutes later—Flagg still lying on his bunk unconcerned and limp as the bacon they were served for breakfast in the mess tent—Hawkeye felt his eyes go half-mast, and his mouth fell open, and he began to whimper a bit as his hips circled restlessly, his body angling for its release and—

Flagg reached up and took his cock in his hand. He held it loosely at first, then formed a fist around the shaft and squeezed—at first Hawkeye was sure he was going to squeeze until it hurt like hell—but no, Flagg showed the first signs of life and cooperation as he stroked Hawkeye off.

Hawkeye was too stunned—stunned and immobilized—to stop, to think, to do anything but _come_ —and come _hard_ , all over—

Shit.

Flagg's face was striped in white sticky fluid, and his hat wore some as a decoration too. The parts of Flagg's face that weren't so defiled were a deep, burned-by-the-sun red, as in a flush, and his eyes were blue—

Hawkeye jerked back in astonishment and dismay.

"So you see," Flagg said, voice totally steady, his breathing steady, his heart rate—Hawkeye had grabbed his wrist—normal, "I have caught you in the act."

There was a long, pregnant pause as Hawkeye regarded him, and Flagg regarded him right back.

"I knew all along you were guilty of desecrating the flag!" he announced, and Hawkeye, winded by this sudden about face, nearly got whiplash.

"I thought…" he said, closing his eyes.

When he opened them, Flagg was gone. All of him and every piece of his uniform, simply vanished.

Hawkeye looked down at his cock, now hanging soft between his legs.

"Did that even happen?" he asked himself, and in answer, Trapper, lying in his bunk, rolled over.

"Did what happen, Hawk?"

"Oh, uh, er, nothing," he said.

Flagg was gone.

Except, wait.

Beneath his pillow was a folded American flag.

END


End file.
